The Endless Vigil
by Ms.GrahamCracker
Summary: The team is on the news capturing one of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted Fugitives, but Don is busy with something much more important.


**Disclaimer: I am a fan fiction writer. I own a laptop. I do not own Numb3rs and I will make no profit from this story. I claim only the original characters and the storyline.**

**No warnings**

**Spoilers: Nothing specific, just a few general canon references for the first three seasons**

**A/N: I set this sometime in mid-season three. **

**Sorry about the length, but, as I hope you'll see, it just didn't flow as well if I broke it into chapters.**

**Summary: The team is on the news capturing one of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted Fugitives, but Don is busy with something much more important.**

**The Endless Vigil**

**~by MsGrahamCracker~**

The elevator doors stuttered as they opened on the parking garage level, making a catching, grinding sound as they parted. Don Eppes shook his head and sighed wearily as he stepped into the empty lift. He'd have to call maintenance again. He'd talked to Bill Rodan, head of the maintenance department, just two days ago about it, and Bill had told him they'd get on it as soon as they could, but they were currently undergoing a quarterly inspection of the cooling and heating units and every man he had was busy.

Don understood that; priorities vs. manpower, he'd dealt with it himself, but what would happen if he and his team were heading out on an important case and the doors would suddenly refuse to open at all. Being stuck in an elevator while his suspect escaped was not optimal and Don pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought he might have to bypass Rodan altogether and go directly to the AD to get it taken care of.

He hated being such a hardass about it. He liked Bill. He'd played golf with him several times, and when he was seeing Robin Brooks they went to a Labor Day cook-out at his house. The man was efficient and reliable in a position Don knew was more often than not unappreciated. He knew Bill was doing the best he could, and, dammit, Don thought, scrubbing his fingers tiredly along his chin, when did he stop giving a man a fair chance? He sighed again, knowing this went way beyond normal aggravation at something that didn't work right. Taking it out Bill was unwarranted and groundless with no justification or merit. It had only been two days and the doors did open after all.

Maybe, he grudgingly admitted, it had more to do with what had happened last week.

During the interrogation of a two-bit thief they suspected of having taken part in a robbery at an art museum, Colby had managed to get the suspect to turn on his partner, Jake Hobbins**. **

His time in Fugitive Recovery had shown Don that felons on the run weren't all that picky about _where_ they ran. He personally had tracked down and captured suspects in condemned buildings, gas station bathrooms, drainage pipes, caves, even cemeteries, so it was no big deal when he and his team had found Hobbins, just as they had been told, in the damp, moldy, garbage strewn basement of an abandoned downtown hotel five days ago.

Jake had tried to escape through a small casement window, but he had grabbed his leg and pulled him back. Together, they had fallen onto the dirty floor where they struggled briefly, rolling in the maggot-filled trash and rat excrement, until David grabbed the man, pulled him to his feet, and Colby had cuffed him.

Megan had given him a hand up – and that's when the tingling had started.

During the struggle he had felt several stings along the inside of his right calf and just above the knee. They had been sharp and prickly like cactus spines.

After Hobbins had been taken away, he had pulled his pants leg up and found several areas of red welts – welts that quickly began to burn and swell. Megan had made a small sound of distress seeing them. Looking at the remnants of several bags of garbage at their feet, they both realized at the same time what had most likely happened. She stepped forward and kicked at a pile of garbage and recoiled immediately as at least six or seven different species of spiders, beetles and unknown insects scurried away. She had looked at him, her eyes wide with the possible and very frightening implication - and his hands had moved quickly to his belt buckle.

He'd never been the squeamish type when it came to creepy-crawly things, but it's a whole different story when they could be in your pants. He had them off in seconds, and Megan, to her credit, never batted an eye. She took the pants from him and virtually attacked them, brushing and shaking them vigorously while he had turned away and discreetly, but thoroughly, checked his boxers. They had found nothing. Whatever it was that had bitten him was gone, leaving more than a dozen red, puffy reminders.

By the time Megan had driven him to the hospital, his entire lower leg was burning and swollen. Several doctors had examined the bites and agreed that he must have rolled into a nest of spiders during his fight with Hobbins. While the bite of a single spider might have caused a small itching irritation, much like a mosquito's bite, the venom from a large number of spiders could be toxic, causing wide-spread swelling, fever and itching. After five hours of observation, numerous blood tests to monitor the level of toxicity, a tetanus booster and a cocktail of high-powered antibiotics, they had sent him home with a prescription for more antibiotics and another one for the pain and itching. They also strongly recommended that he take it easy and stay off the leg for a few days.

It lasted one - one miserable, fevered, drugged day on the couch, scratching and flipping channels through daytime television. With the antibiotics from the doctor and several ice packs from his freezer, the swelling had been reduced to a vague, puffy tightness overnight, while the burning had disappeared completely. It was the itching that threatened to drive him insane. It was relentless, and no amount of scratching could reduce it; the more he scratched the area the more it itched. He had noticed while getting dressed this morning that several of the areas had bloody scabs on them – a direct result of him scratching them so hard they broke open. Fondly, he remembered his mother admonishing him not to scratch when he was six and had the chicken pox. _You'll break it open and it will leave a scar. _She was right, of course, she always was, but, this incessant, irritating, nerve-wracking itchy sensation was driving him insane.

The medicine the doctors recommended to stop the itch was obviously a relaxant, a calm inducing formula that made him drowsy. He stopped taking it after two doses, slathering his leg with a hydrocortisone cream from the drug store instead that did little to relieve his misery.

He had been back to work for three days now. Luckily, (or not, depending on how you look at it) leads were slow coming in on the several open cases they were working on and the few times that field work had been required, he had sent David and Colby. Despite the nagging itch and a persistent, on-again, off-again, low-grade fever, he felt he was fully recovered from the incident, but Megan had given him the raised eyebrows look more than once. Alright, he had to admit he had been edgy, jumpy, more intense than usual, so he couldn't help but wonder what could be important enough for David to call him in this morning and subject the team to his disagreeable behavior again. He made a special note that whatever David needed, it would probably be best if he avoided the interrogation room and any hapless suspect trapped in there with him.

As Don reached forward and pushed the button he needed for the bullpen, his thoughts returned to Bill Rodan and he quickly decided he wouldn't say anything to the AD. Bill would take care if it. As if they were mocking him, though, the doors stuttered closed again.

With a gentle lurch the lift began to ascend and Don leaned against the back wall, feeling the soft swaying movement, knowing it wouldn't take much of that to put him to sleep. Because he was alone (except for the close circuit camera he knew was filming and frankly, he didn't care who saw him) he yawned, his mouth opening wide, his ears popping, his eyes squeezed tight in complete and utter surrender. He didn't even attempt to stifle the loud, unmannerly "yaaahhh" that completed the yawn, something his mother would have scolded him for.

He brought his wrist up and looked at his watch; 9:53am. Damn. The day shift had already been at work for hours, but he should be at home, in bed, sleeping with a pillow over his head to block out the light. After dragging in at 7am from an all-night stakeout, where he had driven the poor agent with him crazy scratching his leg, he had only been asleep for two hours when David had called.

The stakeout had been a bust. They had received reports that a bank official who's bank had been robbed the previous week was acting as though he intended to leave town suddenly. Don had pulled a rookie who needed the experience and took up a position across the street from the man's opulent house. It turned out their suspect _was_ leaving town in a hurry – on his lawyer's advice; trying to get out of the state with his mistress before being served divorce papers that would invoke the pre-nuptial agreement with his wealthy wife. So nine hours sitting in the car, scratching and drinking enough coffee to float a boat had been a waste of time and had nothing to do with the bank robbery.

Hoping for enough relief from the itching to be able to sleep, he had relented when he returned home that morning and taken the anti-itch medication. He was technically off duty, but was still on-call. After a ten hour work day, an all-nighter, and the relaxant, he had been slow to rouse when David called.

It didn't help, either, that it was gloomy outside, what the people of Los Angeles called a May Grey day. During the summer, after a period of unusually warm, dry weather like they'd had recently, the conditions could suddenly become cool, damp and overcast, leading to areas of heavy fog that rolled in from the coast with such density, it cause havoc with all forms of transportation, especially the airports and freeways. The fog would normally dissipate by mid-morning, but early morning rush-hour driving was a nightmare. His drive in had been stressful, traveling in and out of the milky haze several times, during which visibility was nearly zero. Already on edge from the insistent itching, the added stress had done little to calm him and as the elevator slid to a stop, he took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever it was that compelled David to call him in.

Sinclair was there waiting for him when the elevator doors opened, a mixed expression of excitement and guilt showing on his handsome face.

"I'm really sorry to call you in this morning, Don. I know the stakeout last night was ..."

Not wanting to rehash it, Don stepped out of the elevator and waved his hand quickly between them, impatiently brushing the topic away. "What do you have? It'd better be good."

"How about Victor Moody?"

Don stopped, suddenly very awake and staring at his team mate as if he'd grown another head."Here? In LA?"

Victor Luis Moody had the dubious distinction of being added to the FBI's Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list two years before when he robbed an armored car in Chicago, killing two guards and escaping with nearly a quarter of a million dollars.

"Yeah," David said. "Couple of metro cops spotted him in a blue van."

"They're sure?" A collar like Moody could certainly turn the day around, Don thought, moving again.

"They managed to get a cel phone picture," David said, walking briskly beside Don through the maze of cubicles. "We ran it through facial recognition and confirmed. It's Moody."

Bed and spider bites already forgotten Don headed for the war room, knowing David would have the team gathered there. "Alright. Where'd they see him?"

"That's the best part, Don. They saw him get on the 10, heading east about an hour ago."

Don stopped just inside the door. Megan and Colby looked up as he turned back to David, his mouth open, his forehead creased in confusion and dismay. "Aw, David," he groaned. "That's not good at all. He could be in the next county by now."

David smiled grimly, but his eyes flashed with excitement. "He could be," he said, "if there wasn't a massive multi-vehicle pile up that's got all eastbound lanes blocked. He's not going anywhere anytime soon, Don. He's in grid-lock with half of Los Angeles."

Don's morning routine had obviously been altered. He'd managed a quick shower and clean clothes before leaving his apartment, but there had been no time for his usual wake-up-while-watching-the-morning-news-cup-of-coffee, so he hadn't heard anything about the accident. He wasn't surprised, though. It happened way too often on days like this.

"Do you have back-up ready?" Don asked, even though he knew David probably took care of that first.

David nodded his head. "Both LAPD and the sheriff's department have cruisers maintaining surveillance. They have every exit for the next 50 miles covered. State police are doing a fly over."

"Well, tell them to hold back," Don said sharply. "We don't want to spook him."

Colby jumped in, then, with, "Reports just came in that he's stuck west of the 110 Interchange. Traffic is at a complete standstill there, Don. We can take him."

Don looked at his team members. He had brought in suspects from the Ten Most Wanted List before – two in one day, in fact – and he remembered the crazy rush of adrenalin and excitement that went with it. David, Megan and Colby were practically drooling at the prospect of arresting Moody. What the hell, he thought, why not. Each of them was more than capable and even he had to admit he wasn't at his best today. He'd run the command center with LAPD and let them have the collar.

"What are we waiting for?" he said with a grin. "Let's roll."

After a quick stop in the locker room to suit up into their tac gear, they headed for the parking garage. As they stepped out of the elevator, whose doors had opened quickly and smoothly this time, Don's phone rang.

"Eppes," he answered.

"_Don Eppes?"_

Not recognizing the voice, Don slowed down slightly and motioned for the team to continue on towards the vehicles. "Yeah. Who's this?"

"_Dr. Sorrenson at Good Samaritan. Charles Eppes has just been brought into the ER here. He's been involved in an accident. He needs surgery and we need family authorization."_

He stopped. His mouth gaped open, soundlessly, and he stood rooted in place. Was this someone's idea of a twisted joke?

He'd actually talked to his brother before going to bed this morning. Charlie had told him he didn't have classes until later in the afternoon and that he'd finished the new crime index he'd been working on. He planned on dropping it off at the FBI offices this morning – which meant he would be traveling on . . . Suddenly David's statement about the fog-induced pile up took on a very personal and terrifying meaning.

The doctor's voice, caustic and sharp, was still there. He spoke clearly and succinctly, with an exasperated tone, like an angry parent who was tired of repeating himself._ "Listen, your brother can't give his okay. You were number one on his speed dial, but if you can't . . ." _

"Yeah," he finally blurted out, "uh, alright. I'll be there in … like ten minutes."

The doctor's voice, once again brusque and hurried, came back._"Make it eight and ask for me at the ER desk."_

Stunned beyond forming additional words Don merely nodded, then closed his phone and returned it to it's holder.

"Don?"

He turned to David, Megan and Colby who were standing at the vehicles, looking both worried and impatient at the same time.

He knew he should say something, but to his horror, his normally quick mind was stuck on two words – _Charlie_ and _accident_. How badly was his brother hurt? He forced the budding panic aside – the doctor had said to hurry – but, first, he had to take care of business.

"David," he snapped quickly, "you have tactical command."

"What?" David began to protest. "Don …?"

Don was moving quickly, though, towards his Suburban, his keys already in his hand. "Just … bring Moody in, okay? Everything by the book, you understand? No technicals. And be careful – he's got nothing to lose."

Megan stepped away from the large vehicle as Don slid into the driver's seat. She stood beside David and Colby for just a minute as they watched their boss pull out of the garage, the SUV's tires squealing on the road surface as he drove away.

~ 00000 ~

The hospital's parking lot was crowded, even the spots reserved for law enforcement were taken, and it occurred to Don that the multi-vehicle accident David was telling him about was only two exits north of there. This would be the closest hospital to take the injured and there would obviously be policemen there to take reports and statements from the victims.

Of course, he didn't even know for sure Charlie had been involved in that particular incident. The amount of traffic accidents in LA in one days time had to be astronomical. And heaven knows Charlie's driving record wasn't the best. He just got his license back last year. Besides his objection to methods used in radar detection, his brother was often a distracted driver. He could have been lost in math thought and driven right into a pole or a mailbox or through a guard rail… alright, he thought, no use thinking things like that until you know what's going on.

He didn't see an open parking space anywhere close to the entrance and he was not about to waste time looking for one in the back of the parking lot. It wasn't official business, but Don pulled his Suburban onto the grass next to a large outside waiting area, anyway. Let them ticket me, he thought. I don't care.

He ran the short distance to the automatic doors. They whooshed open quickly and he stepped into chaos.

To him, emergency rooms in LA often seemed like disorganized organization, a controlled chaos of endless paperwork and interminable wait times that somehow worked, but today was the worst he had ever seen. People were lined up three and four deep at the reception area where three flustered and clearly exasperated women were trying to sign people in and hand information out.

Quickly he showed his ID to one of the two security officers, removed his gun and cuffs then walked through the metal detector just inside the door. As he returned his weapon to the holster at his hip, he looked with dismay at the crowd. He could use his federal credentials and bypass them, he knew, but it wouldn't be right. Everyone of them was either in need of medical aid themselves or there for loved ones – no different than he was. But then, he remembered the tone of the doctor's voice on the phone – his urgent demand for Don to get there quickly and he decided if Charlie needed help right away he wasn't about to wait.

Stepping up as close to the desk as he could he stretched his arm between a man and a woman's head, towards one of the receptionists, clearly displaying his ID and badge and spoke quickly over the din before she could complain. "I'm looking for Dr. Sorrenson. Concerning Charles Eppes."

Instead of the sharp, angry reply he expected, the woman turned to him with what he could only describe as sympathy or pity in her eyes**.** It scared him. She obviously knew his brother's name, and not in the way of his math-rock-star status. Don's stomach clenched. He knew it had something to do with what happened today, but what could have happened that she would recognize Charlie's name over everyone else?

"Room 25," she said kindly, nodding her head in the direction of the long hallway behind him.

Don turned away, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

There were stretchers in the hallway, butted up against the walls, with injured people waiting to be seen. Don hurried by, his level of worry and distress mounting with each step. He had to step around a wheelchair that was blocking his way past exam room 9. An elderly woman sat in it holding a bloody cloth against the gaping wound in her arm, her dark eyes searching for help. This is crazy, Don thought. What had happened? Was all this from the pile up on the freeway? It resembled the aftermath of a terrorist attack. His instinct screamed to him to stop, to help the woman apply pressure to the injury, to find out what had happened, but just then a young aid brushed past him, hurrying towards the woman and relieved, Don moved on.

At room number 25 he took a deep breath and pushed aside the curtain, nearly colliding with a nurse as she hurried out. One look into the small, overly crowded area was all he got before he was pushed further to the side as the narrow bed was wheeled past him into the hallway. He only had a brief glance at the patient, but it was enough to recognize his brother's slack and bruised features. There were people on both sides of the bed, working on him even as the bed moved.

A tall man, dressed completely in green scrubs from top to bottom was yelling, his voice booming out over the noisy din of the emergency area. "Alright, he's stable. Let's get him into the OR."

Don didn't have time to think about it. As the bed rushed past him he simply joined them, running alongside the bed, his eyes glued to the still form of his brother.

"Who the hell are you?" the doctor barked.

Don didn't take his eyes off Charlie, but he answered the tall man as they continued to run. "Don Eppes."

"The brother?" Dr. Philip Sorrenson's tone was just as sharp and biting as it had been on the phone. "It's about time," he snapped. The doctor stopped, standing directly in front of Don and blocking his ability to remain beside the bed. Sorrenson grabbed some papers from a nurse standing beside him and thrust them towards Don. "Here, sign these."

The team of people propelling the bed holding his brother had not stopped and Don watched, while a strong feeling of dread coiled in his stomach, as it moved quickly away from him.

Doctor Sorrenson, apparently satisfied that Don would sign the papers and the nurse would deliver them to the proper department, turned and started after his team.

"Woah!" Don called, grabbing Sorrenson's arm at the last minute. "Wait. Can I … I mean, what's wrong with him? Why does he need surgery? Can I see him?"

Doctor Sorrenson stopped and shook Don's hand from his arm. "Mr. Eppes," he started.

"Actually, it's Agent Eppes. FBI."

"Well, that certainly explains a lot. Look, I don't know if you've noticed but we're a little busy here today. If the two of you need to work out any sibling problems to ease your conscious, do that on your own time, not mine. I've got an OR waiting for this patient."

Don was shocked and more than a little angry. His eyes grew narrow but he forced himself to swallow the anger. It burned like hell going down, but losing control in the middle of a bustling hospital and threatening his brother's doctor was not going to help. He did however take a step closer to the taller man, the tone of his voice much like the one he used dragging a confession from a suspect, leaving no doubt how he felt about the man's attitude. "I have nothing to work out with my brother that concerns you. I just need to know ..."

He had expected the doctor to back down, to yield to his intimidating expression and threatening tone of voice. Doctor Sorrenson, however, quickly closed the gap between them and interrupted, looking down at the agent with obvious disdain."Look, all I want from you is your signature on those papers. The nurse will tell you where you can wait. Someone will let you know when we're done."

Sorrenson turned away, abruptly, and hurried down the hall leaving Don standing, open mouthed, in the middle of the hallway. He was seething with anger, his lips thin and tight, barely controlling the urge to demand another doctor treat his brother, but one look at the continued chaos in the narrow hallway made him realize it would probably do no good today.

As if she was reading his mind, the nurse standing beside him offered him a wry smile. "He's not known for his bedside manner, but he's one of the best surgeons in the country." She handed him the papers.

Furious and reluctantly resigned, Don took the papers from her. "He'd better be," he promised with a growl and scribbled his name. As he handed them back to her he looked once again down the hall where Charlie had been rushed. They were waiting at the staff elevator and the doctor had caught up to them. Even through the confusion Don heard the ding that signaled it's arrival on their floor and as soon as the doors slid open, the bed was pushed inside. It occurred to him, belatedly, that there seemed to be a lot of people surrounding his brother and he wondered if that was normal. The last glimpse he had of Charlie didn't help the increasing feeling of dread. His brother was claustrophobic and having that many people in such a close proximity would be very distressful to him: he would be fighting it. But he remained eerily still, his face covered by an oxygen mask, most of his dark curls unseen beneath a swath of white bandages, his hand limp and unmoving at the side of the bed.

Don blew out his breath, sharply, and the anger went with it. Gut-churning fear replaced it. This was a nightmare. What had happened to Charlie? Had he been in that multi-vehicle accident or a smaller one? Did it really matter?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the knots in his stomach, and scrubbed his open hand across his face. He had no idea how long it would take - the doctor hadn't given him any indication how long Charlie would be in surgery; in fact, the doctor hadn't given him anything but a hard time. So, what now?

There would be paperwork, he sighed; no matter what the emergency was or who was hurt there was always paperwork to fill out. He would need …

Don turned to the nurse still standing beside him. "Charlie's things?"

She nodded and led him back to the cubicle where his brother had been treated. An aide was busy cleaning and disinfecting it for the next patient. He noticed a small plastic sack in the corner and asked, "Is that Charlie's stuff?"

She picked the bag up and looked at a small tag attached to it. "Charles Eppes," she read out loud, then handed it to him. There was no clothing in the bag – Don was glad. Whatever his brother had been wearing was probably dirty or bloody or been cut off him and they had thrown it out. There were several pieces of chalk, some change, a napkin from a small campus cafe with numbers scribbled on it, and … ah hah, Charlie's wallet.

Clutching the brown leather billfold and the small bag, Don wandered back to the craziness of the emergency room lobby and with a heavy sigh took his place in line.

It took fifteen minutes to reach the sympathetic woman again, who was wearing a name tag that read Karen. She smiled kindly and gave him the required paperwork, showing him where to sign as next of kin.

As he moved through the throng of people towards the waiting area, he perused the paperwork in his hand. It was attached to a regular clipboard and seemed to have the standard questions. It always amazed him how a person was suppose to sit and answer inane questions when they were either sick, bleeding or in pain, or a loved one was.

He was not surprised to find there were no empty seats in the waiting area, so he leaned against the wall near the doorway. He wrote the date at the top of the paper in the designated area, but it was awkward doing so standing up.

At that moment a nurse stepped into the room from the examining area and called out a name. A young man, holding an ice pack to his head stood up and followed the nurse down the hallway. Don quickly slipped into the vacant chair.

Seated now, he placed the clip board on his lap and took a deep breath. He was tired and he took a moment to rub his eyes. He leaned over and scratched at the irritating bites on his leg, then looked, once again, at the paperwork in his hands.

He remembered the last time he had answered these questions for a family member and he choked back the sudden, overwhelming feeling of loss.

It was towards the end of his mother fight with cancer; over four years ago. She had gotten very ill and he and his father had brought her to the hospital. Alan had gone with Margaret and her doctor while Don stayed and filled out the paperwork. He had known, then, that she would probably not be going home again – and it had been hard. Charlie, of course, was … well, back home in the garage, not coping.

And now, it's Charlie who's here and Don was once again the one answering questions.

He was afraid. He remembered Charlie accusing him once of not allowing himself to be afraid. That wasn't true. He was afraid a lot, but whether he was born with the ability to take charge or had developed it over the years, he was the one people relied on. He was the one that handled things other people couldn't. It had served him well when he ran his own field office in New Mexico and here in L.A. as team leader, as well. But, Charlie was right about one thing. If he was afraid, no one knew it. He kept it hidden, pushed back into the deepest corner of his mind, until he was alone – then the nightmares of terrorist attacks and serial killers and even his father's eventual death haunted him, prompting him many nights, alone in his apartment, to seek solace in alcohol. It may explain, he thought, why he spent so many evenings at Charlie's. Time with his family kept the demons at bay.

But it was Charlie now who needed his help and he wasn't sure he was up for it. Guilt weighed heavily on him as he thought the timing sure could have been better. His team was facing a dangerous, cold-blooded killer without him, and the burden of responsibility had never been greater. The big brother in him, though, was even more scared. He was still angry with the pompous doctor who had walked away leaving him in the middle of the hallway with no other information other than Charlie needed surgery. Surgery, for what? Surgery for car accidents, he knew, could be anything from setting a broken bone to internal bleeding to serious head trauma and everything in between.

If Charlie had been in the big accident on the freeway, he could have been rear-ended by the car or cars behind him. It was highly possible, though, with visibility near zero that he could have been the one to hit the car in front of him. Sometimes those pile-ups can be nothing more than a massive series of fender-benders and whiplashes that make grown insurance agents cry.

On the other hand, if Charlie had just been careless and absent-minded and ran off the road somewhere because he had had a sudden "significant train of thought", he would personally take his little brother's drivers license away and cut it into little pieces in front of him.

Either way, when Charlie got home, Don was going to insist on a defensive driving course - as soon as possible. They don't keep people in the hospital that long these days after surgery and Charlie could be home and running between classes at CalSci or filling up white boards in the bull pen in no time at all. Charlie was going to be fine and Don wanted to make sure something like this didn't happen again.

Yeah, he thought, Chuck will be alright. In fact, when he's out of recovery and settled in a room and everything's alright, Don thought he'd go home and grab a few hours sleep. Charlie will be sleeping too, so it wouldn't matter if he was there or home getting some much needed rest. He wouldn't be any good to his brother, just sitting there watching him sleep. Yep, he thought, that sounded like a good plan.

In the meantime, he sighed, leaning over to scratch his leg again, there was still paper work to fill out.

_Name. Address. Phone number. Birthday. _Easy enough. _Name of insurance carrier. _He pulled the card out of Charlie's wallet and copied the information. Also easy. No medications except for the occasional migraine relief. _No allergies._ Right? Right._ Previous surgeries?_ Appendectomy when he was 11 – that was, uh, 1986 – wait, there was the tonsillectomy first. 1981._ Is the patient being seen for an injury?_ Car accident certainly applies, but do I put that here? _ Bleeding?_ He shuddered. Probably._ Dizziness?_ _Fever? Loss of consciousness?_ He swallowed hard, remembering his last image of Charlie being wheeled away, his eyes closed, his mouth slack under the oxygen mask … Ah, hell, he thought, leave all that blank. They actually know more than I do right now. _ Emergency contact _. . . Damn . . . I have to call Dad!

Alan was in Boca Raton, Florida with his brother Joel, participating in a charity golf tournament. Should he call him now, or wait until Charlie was out of surgery and he knew more about his brother's injuries? No, he decided. He had to call him now, give him a chance to get here as soon as he could.

He quickly jotted down both his and Alan's numbers, writing down "father" and "brother" in the relationship-to-the-patient line, signed at the bottom as responsible next of kin, then crossed the crowded waiting area and handed the completed forms to Karen. There was a small break in the commotion at the desk and she smiled at him, then consulted her computer monitor. "They haven't let us know what OR he's been taken too, yet," she said, in a tired and apologetic voice. "Have a seat, Mr. Eppes. I'll come tell you when I find out."

_Agent_ Eppes, he thought tiredly, but didn't correct her – just murmured his thanks and turned away. Taking one look at the congested waiting room, he decided to go outside to call Alan. Once there he took several deep breaths and pulled his phone from it's holder.

As he waited for his father to answer, Don searched the area for a quiet place to talk. He found a bench far enough away from the entrance and hurried towards it. He didn't want to tell his father Charlie was in surgery on a recorded, impersonal message, so, when the call went to voice mail he just left word for Alan to call him as soon as possible.

He thought briefly of calling Liz Warner. She was on loan with Narcotics this week, but he wasn't sure their secret relationship was strong enough to handle something like this. Were they friends or just lovers at this point? He shook his head; not ready to think about that today.

He knew he had to return to the waiting room – it's where the receptionist would be looking for him to let him know what operating room Charlie had been taken to – but he was loath to go back into the chaos. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts. His emotions had soared and ebbed so much in the short time since David's call just a little over an hour ago, and he needed to get control of them. A low, unbidden mantra had wormed its way into his head; a mantra of _Charlie's in surgery, Charlie was in a car accident, Charlie's been hurt,_ and if he let it control his thoughts and actions he wouldn't be able to function properly today.

It might help if he knew how badly Charlie had been hurt or even what had happened. Once again, Don wondered if all the people in the hallways and exam rooms had been involved in the pile up. He remembered in the fall of 2002 there had been a crash with over 200 vehicles on Interstate 710. If this one was that bad it would certainly explain all the people waiting to be treated. And if Charlie had been there, what had happened to him?

He had heard the doctor, rushing out of the exam room, say Charlie was stable. He swallowed a nearly suffocating lump of fear, knowing that meant at one time he wasn't stable. What had happened to his brother? It still irked him that the doctor hadn't even told him why Charlie was being rushed to surgery.

He knew his emotions were running rampant but it seemed emotions and their repercussions had always been a part of his relationship with his brother; jealousy, resentment, pride and always, love. Today, his thoughts had run from terror and the real possibility that his brother had been seriously injured to Charlie'll be home in a few days and everything will be fine.

As a federal agent he was often presumptive, using deductive reasoning and years of experience to put criminals behind bars, but like his brother and their mother before them, he preferred to deal in facts - forensics, DNA, fingerprints and confessions. A bit of rushed information from an overworked jerk of a doctor didn't tell him what he needed to know and he had never liked working with the unknown. He could deal with certainties - it was the unknown that scared him.

There were no certainties today, though, and dwelling on the dark side of things - what_ could_ have happened - what _could_ be wrong - how badly Charlie _could _be injured could potentially keep him from doing what he had to do. And, damn it, it looked like all he could do right now was sit and wait.

He knew the old adage of what happens when you assume – but, until he knew better he was just going to assume Charlie would be alright. He had to. It was Charlie. Still . . .

He decided to take his brother's wallet and belongings to the SUV before going back to the waiting room, and while he was there he moved the Suburban to a better (legal) parking spot. Just before leaving the vehicle he impulsively reached for the plastic bag that held Charlie's things. He found what he was looking for right away. He sat for a moment, rolling the small piece of chalk in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket and headed back to the waiting room.

Once inside, he made a slight detour to a vending machine and got a cup of coffee, pushing the buttons for extra sweetener and creamer, then reluctantly returned to the teeming waiting area.

The seat he had been in was taken but there was another one vacant just inside the door from the exam area and he slid into it. A few minutes later the door swung open and a large African American woman in a wheelchair was pushed into the room. Another younger woman walked along beside her. The nurse moved the chair into position beside Don, whose chair was the last one along the wall. He stood up, quickly, and offered his seat to the younger woman. She took it with a small smile of thanks.

The nurse locked the wheelchair in place, then patted the woman's shoulder. "You just wait right here, Mrs. Basset. Your prescription for pain killers will be ready in a little bit and I'll bring them right out to you. We're kind of busy today, but it won't take long."

The woman gave the nurse a short nod, her face scrunched in pain, and the nurse patted her reassuringly once more, then left.

Don leaned against the pale green wall again, holding the steaming disposable cup in his hands. He brought the coffee to his lips and blew slightly, then hesitantly tried a sip. It wasn't as hot as he had expected, or hoped, but it wasn't bad. He'd had worse. Granger's coffee was legendary at the office for being so strong a spoon could stand upright in it. Of course, David didn't drink coffee, but he never missed an opportunity to join in on the comments about his partner's lack of coffee-making skills.

Charlie could actually brew a decent pot of coffee - something to do with a coffee equation he did once to optimize the experience.

His stomach churned at the thought of his brother again and he swallowed back the rush of fear that came with it with another drink. No need to borrow trouble, he thought. Charlie's going to be fine.

Megan would probably not be happy that he was avoiding the reality of the situation by normalizing and minimizing it, but right now, he needed the control it gave him.

Hmm, Colby's coffee, David's teasing, Megan's profiling; seems his mind was on his team, as well as Charlie; his team and Victor Moody. A quick glance at his watch told him it had been a little more than an hour since they had separated in the parking garage at FBI headquarters. If everything had fallen into place (which it rarely did), they could already have him in custody. He knew, though, that there were any number of things that could have gone wrong. Felons, trapped or surrounded, with nothing to lose, can be unpredictable and too often deadly. Moody could decide to shoot it out, endangering both his agents and the horde of commuters stuck on the freeway. He could try to escape, using the other motorists and vehicles as cover, dodging between the mass of cars and making it virtually impossible for the team to risk a shot at him. Worse case scenario was always a hostage situation. Moody could easily grab an innocent person – drag someone out of a idling car, maybe even a child – and force the team to let him escape under the threat of a gun to the person's head.

He hadn't told his team about Sorrenson's call or that Charlie had been hurt, so they wouldn't even know where he was to report to when it was over. They could call him, of course, but depending on where he was in the hospital, his cell phone might not be on. There would be a certain amount of follow-through and paperwork before they would be done with Moody, and maybe by that time Charlie will be out of surgery and he could give them a call when he went home to catch a few hours sleep.

Of course, the capture of one of the ten most wanted by the FBI and LAPD in the middle of a pileup on the freeway would certainly make the news, maybe even a news break. Hopefully, he looked at the television mounted on the opposite wall and nearly groaned out loud when he saw the channel was tuned to an episode of Dora the Explorer. A number of the children, and several adults, seemed to be enraptured by the small dark-haired, bi-lingual star. What he found even more disturbing was how the hell he even knew who Dora was.

Once again he considered using his credentials and commandeering the television, but thought maybe that might be pushing it a little too far.

His thoughts were interrupted by the loud moaning of the woman in the wheelchair. She was rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder, crying and beseeching someone to help her. Don frowned, wondering at the nurse's statement that she was just waiting for a prescription. It sure seemed like there was something wrong with her. A nurse or an aide, Don wasn't sure which, came out and tried to sooth the woman, telling her again the x-rays showed nothing more than a slight ankle sprain, but she continued to moan as if her leg was falling off.

He shook his head. Some people just need the attention, I guess.

But, speaking of legs, his itched – again. He leaned over slightly and rubbed his pant leg against the irritation, but it only escalated the discomfort. He longed for the medication that would provide a bit of relief and maybe a few more hours sleep, but that was exactly why he couldn't take it. He needed to stay alert.

Another nurse appeared and called out a name, then led a middle-aged couple into the exam area and once again Don slid into one of the vacant seats.

With nothing else to do and desperate to think of something other than his brother in surgery or his team's encounter with Victor Moody, Don sipped his coffee and surveyed the occupants of the room.

Next to the still moaning drama queen sat an elderly couple. The old man was pale and shaky, one hand holding onto a cane, the other holding his wife's hand beside him. She had her eyes closed and was leaning against her husband's shoulder. Don couldn't tell which one was there for medical help, there were no visible signs of injury or trauma, then he took a closer look. The fear in the old man's eyes told him the woman was sick and the man was terrified of facing life without her.

On the other side of the old couple sat another woman, probably mid-forties, Don thought, and he knew as soon as he looked at her why she was there. He had seen the signs on his brother before; the way she held her head, the dark sunglasses, the cold compress on the back of her neck, the lines of pain across her forehead and the kidney-shaped emesis pan held shakily in her hands. Migraine. Another woman sat with her, a sister or lover, Don guessed from the familiar way she touched her and held her hand.

Next to them was a Hispanic family; husband, wife, one child on the mother's lap and two more playing on the floor in front of them. It was obvious they were here for the the little girl being held by her mother. The child's face was flushed with fever and she laid limp against her mother's body.

A young couple were in the next seats, the only signs of distress being the worried looks on their faces. Same as me, Don thought, just waiting for news.

Three children, two boys and one girl, sat on the floor watching the television. He couldn't tell for sure who they belonged to.

Another child, a boy, maybe ten or twelve, sat with his father. The boy had a small icepack held against his left arm which was cradled protectively against his chest. Broken, Don thought, remembering the year he broke his own arm sliding into third base, hitting Jimmy Pabers so hard he fell onto Don's arm with his full weight, snapping the bone. A lousy way to spend the summer, he sympathized.

Don bent over and scratched his ankle again as he studied the young man sitting in the next seat very carefully. Early twenties, African-American, gang colors and gang attitude. He had all the signs of having been in a brutal fight - his face was bloodied and bruised, and his clothes were torn and dirty. His right hand was wrapped with a bandana of some sort which was dark with blood. He scowled at everyone. Don didn't expect the man to cause any trouble here in the emergency room, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him.

There was a score of others with no signs of trauma or injury, who he assumed were also waiting for news from a doctor. Had someone they loved been in the pile up? What about all those people in the hallway waiting to be seen? Once again he wished he knew what had happened to his brother.

On the other side of the room, a young man sat by himself. The seat next to him had several jackets and what Don assumed was a woman's purse in it. A minute or so later a woman came in carrying a small boy and a diaper bag with her. The man moved the things from the chair and she sat, placing the child in her lap, but he protested immediately, stiffening his body until she moved him to the floor.

Not having been around many children Don had no idea how old the child was, but he moved around the room on wobbly, unsteady legs that said he wasn't very old.

Malcolm, his mother called him. Malcolm, be careful. Malcolm don't do that, honey.

After thirty minutes, Don thought if this thing worked out with Liz and they got married and had children, he swore by whatever God there was, his son's name would never be Malcolm.

Malcolm, sit down. Malcolm, get back over here. Malcolm, put that back. Malcolm, leave the nice lady's shoes alone. Malcolm, don't pull the little girl's hair. Malcolm, don't jump on the chair. Malcolm, you're going to break that, leave it alone. Malcolm, don't eat that!

He tried to ignore it, tried block out the mother's high-pitched, annoying, nasal voice, but, his emotions, already tenuous at best, couldn't handle it. He stood up abruptly and left the room, taking a place in the line at the receptionist desk again.

"Any word?" he asked, hopefully, when he stood before Karen once more.

Her lips were pressed tightly together as she shook her head. "Sorry."

He nodded, vaguely, as if he understood, but he didn't really.

He took his time walking down the hall to the vending machine again. He thought about going to the cafeteria, but somehow, just the thought of eating something settled as badly as actually eating something.

He went through the motions of inserting the money and selecting the same options he had before, then removed the filled cup from the small opening. With his free hand he rubbed the back of his neck, moving his head around on his shoulders and massaging the tendons that were screaming with tension and stress. He headed back to the waiting area with a reluctance that made his heart heavy and his steps slow.

There were several seats empty and he chose one next to the woman with the migraine. It put him as far away from Malcolm as possible while also providing a clear, unobstructed view of the scowling gang member.

The woman beside him made a small sound of distress. Her companion had refreshed the cold compress and she now held it against her eyes. He felt for her. Charlie always needed dark and quiet when he was besieged with a migraine. Between the harsh fluorescent lighting, Malcolm's antics, his mother's continuous nerve-wracking litany of _Malcolm, don't,_ and the loud moans and pleas of the wheelchair-bound drama queen, Don knew the woman must be suffering. For her sake, he hoped she would be called into the exam area soon, away from the stress and confusion of the waiting room.

He sat quietly for a while, sipping his coffee, staring straight ahead, for all appearances lost in thought, then glanced at his watch again; nearly two hours had passed since he had gotten the call from Sorrenson.

He rolled his head around once again and rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from suppressed emotions and the hard chair.

Some people had left and others arrived and still he wondered at the sheer amount of people passing through the emergency room. That must have been some accident. And Charlie might have been in it.

His attention was taken by a woman who had just arrived. She stood motionless for a few seconds in the doorway as she scanned the room, obviously looking for someone. She looked frantic, upset, desperate, which, considering where they were, Don thought would make perfect sense - but there was something more. The skin on the back of his neck tingled as he studied her. The woman found what she was looking for and rushed to the young boy with a broken arm, leaning over to hug him. The boy's father stood up and after asking the suddenly nervous looking boy if he was alright and receiving a quick nod, the woman stood up, as well, meeting the man face to face.

The look that passed between the parents told Don there was going to be trouble.

It started almost immediately; the allegations, the claims of child neglect and endangerment, the threat of restraining orders and change of custody rights. There was obviously a long and troubled history between the two of them, but whatever it was, this was not the time nor place to deal with it.

The boy was miserable seeing his parents threaten each other with lawyers and lawsuits, using him as leverage. When he called out to them to stop and they both turned and told him to shut up, Don started out of his chair.

What happened next surprised even him. The man grabbed his cell phone, saying he was calling his lawyer, and the woman reached into her purse, Don assumed, for her own phone to do the same. Instead of the phone he was expecting she drew out a small handgun and pointed it at the man. Don jumped into action, but the children on the floor scattered in fear, and he nearly stumbled over them. By the time he moved them out of the way the man had knocked the gun from the woman's hand, then hit her full in the face, sending her reeling backwards. The boy cried out and pulled at his father's shirt pleading with him to stop but the man turned and backhanded the boy as well. Don was on him in an instant, grabbing the man and roughly twisting his arm up behind his back. The woman, screaming obscenities, threw herself at them, pelting her ex with blows, and in the confusion the man broke away from Don's clutch. He reached again for him, but suddenly the man was reeling backwards uncontrollably, his arms flailing wildly, and slammed into Don. They both fell to the floor. Not sure exactly what had happened, but certainly willing to take advantage of it, Don wasted no time in turning the man over, cuffing his hands behind his back and pulling him to his feet.

The gang member stood before him, holding his injured hand up and out of the way, his good hand still fisted and ready to strike again. Don nearly laughed out loud at the irony. He'd had his eye on him, watching for any signs of trouble – and instead it had come from the more unlikely suburban couple. He knew urban gang members don't usually get involved with anything outside their territory and he wondered at the man's unexpected action. At Don's questioning expression, the young man shrugged. "A man's woman – that's different. But, it ain't cool hittin' a kid."

Don shook his head, dumbfounded at the young man's twisted logic and moved the cuffed man away and towards the door.

One of the hospital security guards had the woman in custody and Don handed the man over to another one. He saw a nurse comforting the boy and taking him back into the exam room. Don had a sudden, sick feeling the boy didn't break his arm sliding into third base.

He was suddenly aware the people in the room were staring at him, some of them with blatant awe in their eyes, some with obvious fear. He was used to that. He held his hands up, palms out, hoping to instill some calmness to the room's occupants. "It's alright, folks. FBI. Everything's okay."

Except everything wasn't okay, he thought, glumly, taking his seat again. He still had no idea how badly Charlie had been hurt and the sudden burst of adrenalin had quickly pumped blood through his body, causing the inflamed nerve endings in his leg to ignite once more into an agonizing itch. His team's status was still a mystery, he hadn't heard from his dad yet, and, oh yeah, just one more little thing - now Malcolm and three other frightened children were crying – loudly.

Grimacing against the noise, he sat down again. It took a few minutes for most of the children to calm down, but the disturbance had upset the drama queen and she was shooting for an oscar.

She was crying and moaning and writhing in the wheelchair. Her daughter was beside her, crying as well, making almost as much noise as her mother. A nurse came out again, told the woman it would only be a few more minutes for the prescription and tried to calm her, but she cried out louder, moving and pleading for help. "Oh, Jesus, help me!"

The nurse and everyone in the room had nearly reached their limit of endurance when the woman raised her hands to the ceiling in a wild dramatic gesture, then swooned, her large body falling sideways onto the arm of the wheelchair.

"Mama!" the daughter cried out. The nurse immediately felt for the woman's pulse and checked her pupils. The nurse's eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. It didn't take a special agent to see that the faint had been faked, Don thought.

"Please. Help my mama!" The daughter seemed to be trying for the best supporting award. She continued to yell, even as the nurse applied a cold compress to the back of her mother's neck.

The daughter was yelling so loudly, one of the adults reached up to the television and turned the volume up so his son could hear Dora and her friends singing.

Two of the children on the floor were arguing loudly over a toy, while one, still traumatized from the incident continued to cry on her mother's lap.

The woman beside Don was actually squirming in her chair, her entire head covered against the noise with a jacket.

Don felt a sudden movement at his feet and he looked down to see Malcolm pulling himself to a standing position – using Don's pant leg. The child's eyes were red and puffy and his cheeks were still wet from tears. More disturbing, though, was the moisture that was running freely from his nose, down across his lips and sliding off his chin; and onto Don's black pants. His stomach lurched and he stood up abruptly, causing Malcolm to fall back to the floor on his heavily padded little bottom.

He needed air. He left the room, walking quickly past the receptionist desk. He caught her eye and motioned towards the doorway and the blessedly quiet area outside. She gave him an understanding nod.

He paced outside the doorway for awhile, walking down the small path through the grassy area he had previously parked in, keeping the doors in sight in case Karen came looking for him, but away from the hospital's emergency entrance where still another ambulance was unloading another patient.

He found himself taking deep controlled breaths as he walked, as if he were staving off an anxiety attack. He ran his hand through his short hair and noticed his hand was trembling. It couldn't be the incident in the waiting room. He faced worse than that on a good day. So why was his stomach doing flip flops and his heart beating rapidly?

It had been insane to think he could just sit here, in the hospital's ER waiting room and not face the fact that Charlie could be seriously hurt. He didn't want to imagine the worse, but it was hard to be optimistic, too.

Alright, maybe the woman brandishing a gun in a crowded room did have something to do with it. A twitch, a jolt, an angry remark and things could have ended very differently. Death can happen quickly, suddenly, in an unbelievable variety of ways, including car accidents. He knew the statistics, it happened all the time. People die every day; some for greed, some for sickness, some die out of hatred or fear; and some for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It can happen in an instant and he was crazy to think Charlie would be immune to it.

He wished his father would call. Charlie had already been in surgery for three hours and it was getting harder to convince himself that he would be going home to sleep anytime soon.

"Thanks for your help in there. I'm not sure security would have moved fast enough to stop her from shooting."

Don turned to find Karen standing behind him. He nodded his head instead of saying your welcome and looked expectantly at her, hoping she had news for him.

She took the hint and said, "Sorry for the delay, but we finally have the information. Your brother's been taken to the O R on the fifth floor. There's a waiting area to the left as you get off the elevators. It's usually not as crowded as the one in the main lobby, but today … " She shrugged and he gave her a grim smile of understanding. Today all bets were off.

"Hey," he spoke when she turned towards the door, "what's going on?"

She met his questioning gaze with one of her own.

"I mean, is it usually like this? You know... so many ..."

"There was a horrible pile up this morning on I10. You didn't hear about it?"

"Yeah, sure, but . . . how many cars were involved?

"Cars? About 40 I think. But there were several semis and two loaded tour buses. One . . ." her voice broke, but she took a deep breath and said, "well, it certainly could have been a lot worse than it was."

Don wondered at the strange expression on her face and the obvious change of topic, but he let it go as she wiped at her eyes, and turned away quickly, then cleared her throat.

"Someone will come tell you when your brother is out of surgery."

He knew there was something he was missing, he'd seen it when he'd first arrived at the hospital and she told him where he could find Charlie, but whatever it was remained just out of reach. She was obviously upset about something and he couldn't shake the feeling it had something to do with Charlie's accident.

She hurried back inside to her desk, and when Don walked past her on his way to the elevators he noticed she didn't look up at him.

The elevator was blessedly empty and he closed his eyes, enjoying a brief moment of calm before the impending nightmare he was afraid was waiting for him. The mantra was still there, never ending, a continuous repetition of _Charlie's in surgery. Charlie was in an accident. Charlie's been hurt._

The fear that permeated his soul overshadowed everything else; Karen's mysterious actions, the worry for his team, his body's need for rest, the infernal itching – none of that mattered._ Charlie's been hurt._

The elevator doors slid open smoothly with no effort or sound and Don stepped out, turning to the left towards the waiting area. It was smaller, of course, than the one off the main lobby. It was decorated better, too. Subtle hushed tones of mauve, gray and navy offered a deceptively serene setting where one could supposedly sit in comfort while waiting to hear if someone they loved would be alright.

Two women sat together in the center of the row of chairs against the wall. In the far corner an older man sat with a younger one. On the other side of the room was an older couple, and a few seats down there was a single woman. Other than the television mounted on one wall, the room and it's occupants were quiet.

Not ready to sit again (although these chairs were actually upholstered), Don continued down the hallway until he found a small alcove with various vending machines. He wasn't hungry, even though the last thing he'd had to eat was a stale doughnut sometime around 3am. Just the thought of putting something on his stomach made him nauseous, but after pushing the buttons for another cup of coffee, he inserted more money and got a package of peanut butter crackers. It wouldn't do anybody any good if he let his blood sugar drop.

A glimpse of a white chocolate candy bar made him stop. Larry. Larry would want to know that Charlie was hurt. Hell of a long distance call, though, considering the physicist was currently in orbit. And, Amita … she was … where did Charlie say she was going? Germany? Yeah, that's it … Germany for some collaborative work on some computer science whacht-a-ma-callit. Don wasn't sure how much of a couple his brother and Amita really were. Since she had decided to accept Cal-Sci's professorship instead of the one offered at Harvard, he thinks they have been trying to make their relationship work, but, he and Charlie didn't normally discuss their romantic issues. Hell, he had been seeing Liz for a while now and no one knew about it. Romantically involved or not, Don knew Amita would want to know if Charlie was hurt, but he would wait until after surgery to give her a call. The same with Mildred Finch and Cal-Sci. No use calling when he doesn't really know anything yet.

Mildred Finch – Millie. Where the hell was Dad going with that? He knew Charlie wasn't thrilled that his father was essentially dating his boss, but Don wasn't sure there was anything going on other than two people enjoying each other's company. She seemed nice – a little quirky, but not overly so. He briefly entertained the thought that Millie might be willing to come to the hospital and wait with him – you know, just as support, but he wasn't sure he would be decent company.

No, he was alone in this. Alan hadn't called back yet and his team was hopefully busy processing Moody.

He walked back to the waiting room and took a seat, leaning over briefly to scratch his leg. One of the women nodded and gave him a small smile and he returned the greeting, but no one spoke. Even the television the two women seemed to be watching was quiet, the sound of the actors on the daytime drama barely discernible. He cringed when he bit into one of the crackers and the sound seemed to echo through the room, but no one took notice. The occupants of this room were lost in their own thoughts, their own fears and worries. Their loved ones were also in surgery, like Charlie. They weren't in some cramped exam room and they weren't going to walk out with a few stitches or a bandaid. Charlie was on a hard table in a cold room with strangers instead of his family trying to help him. Even if his injuries were not life-threatening, there was always a risk with surgery; the anesthesia, the skill of the doctors and nurses, the patient's overall health. And, sometimes, Don knew, just the luck of the draw.

He scanned the area for something other than the television to pass the time. In a stand by the door he found several issues of a woman's magazine, a medical publication on how to control your diabetes, two on fishing and one on scenic drives through southern California. Hmm, nothing on baseball or hockey. He thought about taking one on fishing, then impulsively picked up the issue on scenic drives instead. Maybe, when this was all over, he and Dad and Charlie would get away for a few days, go camping, or just drive.

Nearly a half an hour later, he was reading about Route 38 through the Big Bear Lake region when a tired-looking, short man dressed in scrubs came into the room. Everyone looked up expectantly, but he called for the elderly couple and escorted them to a small room across the hall where he shut the door behind them.

The increased level of anxiety in the room was immediate and intensely uncomfortable. Moments before everyone had been still, settled into their own mind-numbing, dazed-like existence. Now they were alert, sitting up, sending quiet, uneasy glances at everyone else. This "thing" they all shared, this terrifying uncertainty of whether a loved one would ever go home again, had united them in a morose, macabre dance of fear and hope that settled over the room as certainly as the fog had blanketed those on the freeway that morning.

After a few moments the door opened. The elderly man walked out first, ramrod straight, almost rigid, and Don could see he was trying to be stoic and brave. The woman was dabbing at her eyes. She had a faint, hopeful smile when she looked at the doctor and Don got the feeling their loved one had survived, but all was not necessarily well.

The insistent mantra in Don's head grew louder. He closed the magazine and laid it down on the seat next to him. Somehow, the idea of a scenic drive with Dad and Charlie seemed out of place and wildly inappropriate. Everything was suddenly in sharper focus – the anxiety and worry about Charlie, the apprehension about Moody and his team, his own fatigue, the wretched itching; all of it was stronger, dominating every thought, every sensation, every fiber of his being.

His phone vibrated suddenly and he jumped. Finally! He stood up, grabbing the phone from it's holder and walked swiftly out of the room. "Dad?"

Alan Eppes spoke quickly, in fast, breathless bursts. "Don, I'm at the airport. My plane leaves in less than an hour. I got the first one I could. I have a layover in Chicago, but it's not too long. How badly is your brother hurt?"

"Dad? How … ?"

"We saw it on the news – at the clubhouse. We had just finished our first nine and was taking a break. We saw the special report; FBI captures wanted felon in the middle of a pile up on the freeway. We saw Colby and David putting him the car and we saw Megan talking to some of the LAPD, but we didn't see you anywhere. Then I noticed I had a message. You didn't need to say the words, Donnie, I heard it in your voice. Charlie's been hurt, hasn't he? He was in that accident."

"Yeah, Dad, I think he was."

"I knew that was the only thing that would keep you from being there with your team. Don't worry about picking me up, I'll grab a taxi. What hospital?"

"Good Samaritan."

"Alright. I'll see you in 8 or 9 hours. Donnie, how bad is it?"

"I honestly don't know. I didn't get to see him. The doctor was a jerk, jumped all over my case and left me standing in the hallway with no information other than Charlie needed surgery. That was over four hours ago."

"And you haven't heard anything?"

"Nothing, but, it's kind of crazy here. It . . . that accident was pretty bad, I guess."

Alan said they were calling for first boarding on his flight so they disconnected quickly and Don went back to his seat.

He took a deep breath then let it out very slowly, closing his eyes in relief. Alan was on his way – and Moody was in custody. His dad had seen his team members on television, all well and uninjured.

So, if they were at the scene, do they know what had happened to Charlie? Should he call them?

No, he decided, they are probably still busy. It's just that he felt – well, alone. He gave in and tried Liz Warner, but it went straight to voice mail. Impulsively, he dialed CalSci's number and asked for Mildred Finch, but was told she was out of town and unavailable.

Resigned to handling this by himself, at least for the time being, he scratched his leg then settled back in the chair.

He hated just sitting. He honestly didn't know how much longer he could just sit here, helpless and alone. Along with the fear there was a certain amount of aggravation. He'd been at the hospital for nearly five hours already with no word from anyone – in chairs that had obviously been used as torture devices in another life.

Short of going home, though, there was nothing he could do but just sit and wait.

Several cups of coffee and another daytime drama later he stood up, stretching the unused muscles in his legs and back and walked down the hall, past the vending machine area, to the men's room, where he took care of business then washed his hands.

Because he couldn't think of anywhere else to go, he wondered back to the waiting area. He changed chairs, selecting one in the corner of the room instead of the one next to the door, where he had been sitting. Stupid, he thought. 's not going to help anything, but, it was ... something.

He checked his watch then glanced at the television. The women had found another soap opera to watch. He wondered if he could talk them into turning the news channel on, but they seemed to be captivated by the heated discussion between three angry men and a woman that was, in his opinion, too young to be having this discussion, concerning the paternity of a chubby-faced baby who kept looking beyond the camera – probably at it's real-life mother, standing behind the cameraman, he thought.

He sighed, bored with the horrible acting and even worse story-line, and leaned over to scratch his leg, then brought his arm up and checked his watch. Six hours. Charlie had been in surgery for over six hours.

"Eight minutes, dude."

Don looked up to see the young man across the room returning his gaze. "What?"

"It's only been eight minutes since you checked your watch. And you checked it four minutes before that and ten minutes before that. It's not going to help anything, man – and you're driving me crazy."

"Brandon." The older man sitting with him shot him a disapproving glare. "There's no need to be rude."

Don didn't know what to say. FBI reports could be a real nuisance but they needed to be accurate. He had gotten into the habit of periodically checking the time through the day for reference points for the report and through the years it had become an unconscious habit. Every member of his team had given him grief at one time or another about checking his watch as often as he did. He knew it could be irritating.

"Sorry," he mumbled, sincerely, holding his hand up in submission. "Sorry, man."

The young man acknowledged his gesture with a quick nod of his own. Don wondered if the two men were father and son and if so, who were they here for? A wife and mother, a sibling? He thought briefly of inquiring, but he was honestly not in the mood for small talk.

He didn't want to talk – he didn't want to sleep – and he sure as hell didn't want to watch soap operas with the two women. He decided to look at one of the fishing magazines. Before he had even turned three pages the two women were summoned to the consulting room by a dark-haired Asian doctor.

The TV was still on and Don quickly went to it, reached up and changed the channel.

He checked his watch and saw that it was 5:09 pm. The local news should still be on. He had to click the channel button several times before he found what he was looking for.

A somber looking man was sitting at the news desk beside an equally somber, but decidedly more made-up female news anchor. A wide-angled view of a LA skyline was projected onto a large screen behind them, giving the appearance the news room looked out over the city.

The woman was talking. " . . . one lane is still down and current DOT reports are saying it could be several more hours before traffic patterns return to normal. Check our traffic report with Adam Tyler at 5:25 for alternate routes."

The man beside her shook his head with an appropriate frown, then turned to the camera. "More on our top story in a few minutes. But first, a check of your weather coming up right after this message."

Damn – just missed it. Don settled in a chair directly in front of the television and waited impatiently through two commercials from the same car dealership, an ad about a depression medication that came with a list of warnings that was more scary than being depressed, a celebrity showing how much weight she had lost on a popular diet who urged the viewer to call right now, an advertisement for a huge two-day sale at Sears and one of those sentimental ads for greeting cards that made Liz tear up.

Finally the station logo appeared and a slightly balding, thirtyish, weatherman gave a quick recap of the weather, then the scene changed back to the two news anchors.

"It's five fifteen and I'm Mark Barnett. Thank you for joining us. Once again, our top story is the massive chain reaction pile-up caused by early morning fog on I-10. Area hospitals are overflowing with injured, with several on the critical list, but so far there have been no deaths reported."

"And that's amazing, Mark," the female anchor cut in, "considering there were nearly 50 cars and two completely loaded tour buses involved."

Mark nodded. "That's right, Carmen, and stories have been emerging all day from the disaster; stories of heroic rescues and selfless acts of bravery. First up, though, is a tale of both ingenuity and opportunity for local FBI agents,; and for one wanted felon, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Our own Glenna Marshall has the story."

Video tape taken on the freeway by the station's cameraman played while the newswoman narrated over it. Don watched the image of David and Colby ushering a cuffed and surly-looking Moody into a service vehicle.

"Resourceful FBI agents took advantage of the grid-lock this morning and surrounded the van driven by Victor Luis Moody, a felon on the FBI's ten most wanted list. Moody was taken by complete surprise with a perfectly executed plan that was headed by agents from the FBI's local office, assisted by the LAPD, Los Angeles Sheriff's Department and state police. Moody had several weapons in the van, but they were immediately confiscated, and because of the swift and competent actions of the FBI, no motorists were in any danger."

"'atta boy, David," Don whispered to himself and closed his eyes in relief.

"Moody is being held with no bail for a 2005 armored car robbery in which a guard was killed. More on that story later."

"This morning's accident was also the scene of incredible heroics by normal citizens," Carmen took over. "Fifty-five year old Jeff McElrath, his wife, Julie and their four children were on their way home from a visit with family in San Diego, when they found themselves engulfed in the blanket of fog. After being struck by multiple vehicles, they came to rest with the driver's side against the guard rail and the passenger side doors jammed from the impact. The vehicle burst into flames and horrified witnesses could only watch as the family screamed for help. Two young brothers, Rico and Miguel Hernandez, on their way to work at Stafford Construction, rushed to the car and managed to break the rear window, getting everyone out alive and unharmed."

Don settled back and scratched his leg as he watched Jeff McElrath tell the reporter about the brother's bravery and his unending thanks that his family had been saved.

"There are other stories, as well, of narrow misses and daring rescues, but none more inspiring or incredible as the story of the man who is known simply as "The Blue Prius". Sounds a little like a super hero name and the description certainly fits."

Don froze, holding his breath. Blue Prius? Charlie?

"As we have been reporting all day, witnesses say a semi-truck driven by 43-year old Ted Goodman jack-knifed across the freeway after slamming into the rear of an SUV driven by 26-year old Stephen Garner from Glendale. It was then the unthinkable happened. Grant Stroehmyer, 51 from San Diego, jack-knifed his own semi-truck trying to bring his rig to a stop and the trailer slid across the highway towards Goodman's stalled truck threatening to crush anyone in between; that included two loaded tour buses from Ventura Tours and a small light blue hybrid."

Don continued to hold his breath, unable to tear his eyes away**.**

"Joe Kitzel, who's own vehicle had been hit tells our reporter, Glenna Marshall what happened next."

Don watched breathlessly as the reporter held a microphone in front of a large man in his 40's.

"I was real scared," Joe Kitzel said, while his wife stood behind him and nodded her head solemnly in agreement. "You couldn't see your hand in front your face and the cars were just bouncing off each other. We hit the one in front of us and all we could do was watch the rear view mirror and hold on tight, ya know?

Joe Kitzel seemed to be enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He kept talking, importantly. "That second truck, it was sliding all over the road and everyone was trying to get out of his way, you know. Problem was the fog was so thick you couldn't see it until you were right on it. One of the buses managed to pull to the right and narrowly missed being clipped by the trailer but the other bus couldn't get out of his way. Me and my wife, all we could do was watch. We figured all those people on that bus were dead, you know?"

The video image of Joe Kitzel was frozen and reduced, then moved to the top right corner of the screen. Mark Barnett, shown in the studio, once again took up the narrative.

"Witnesses say, as the second trailer continued it's uncontrolled slide towards the inevitable collision, it became clear – through the fog-shrouded morning – that there might be time for one vehicle to make it through to the other side of the highway before the impact. What happened next is unbelievable."

Enlarged to full screen status again and re-animated, Joe went on. "That guy, the one driving the Prius, he hit his brakes and let the bus through. I mean, he had to know he couldn't make it through without being caught between the trucks, but … damn, he did it anyway."

All the air Don had been holding onto suddenly left his lungs in one loud gasp.

The scene on the television changed and when Don saw the wreckage of a small blue vehicle, smashed into nothing more than a heap of broken twisted metal, his fingers dug into the arms of the chair, and he felt such a wave of gut-wrenching emotion that for a moment the television image – the entire room – blurred in front of him.

As he watched the scene unfold of rescue workers cutting the mangled wreckage away to retrieve the equally mangled driver, he found himself squinting, staring at the the small screen suspended on the wall, wanting – _needing_ to see everything, yet, repulsed by the images so much that his throat clogged with emotion and his narrowed eyes swelled with unshed tears.

It was Charlie – there was no doubt. One section of the rear bumper clearly showed a CalSci parking sticker. He recognized the blue shirt that was hanging off one arm in shreds as the rescue workers pulled the driver out of the car. An anguished sob escaped him when he saw the dark, bloody curls as the medics rushed the victim away from the site. He closed his eyes, unable to watch anymore.

His stomach rolled in physical pain and he fought the urge to lose every single drop of coffee he had swallowed in the last 24 hours.

He realized the announcer had been talking all along and he had heard none of it. His head was spinning, but he took a long deep breath and focused on the tv screen once more.

" … no information on the hero's identity, condition or even what hospital he was taken to, but wherever he is, I think it's safe to say there are a lot of prayers for his recovery. We'll be right back with a look at this weekend's sports after this brief message."

Don settled back in his seat, his hand moving up to brush through his hair, but stopped when he realized there was something in his hand. Charlie's chalk. He didn't remember taking it from his pocket.

He stared at it – the small stick of suppressed gypsum that represented such a large part of his brother's life, then closed his hand tightly around it. Reality had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but the feel of this small piece of white powder centered him – gave him the resolve to think clearly.

The world he had foolishly put together while he waited disintegrated and crumbled into a pile at his feet; the world where Charlie had only been injured slightly; a world where he could just go home and get a few hours sleep while Charlie sleeps off the anesthesia; where Charlie would recover at home being pampered and fussed over by their father; a world where the doctor would apply a bandage, give Charlie a sucker and a pat on the head and send him home.

Don knew his brother was lucky to be alive and if he lived at all there would be an extended hospital stay, probably a long stint in rehab, drugs for pain, and months of major physical therapy.

He tried to think, to remember. There in the hallway, with Doctor Sorrenson, he'd only had a small glimpse of his brother; had he been unconscious, or had he been given a sedative in preparation for the surgery?

Besides the white gauze on his forehead, there had been ice packed around Charlie's arm. He hadn't thought about that until now. His stomach clenched once more as he brought up another image he had unconsciously suppressed – the sheets covering his brother's legs had been stained, bloody in spots and uneven in places, as though what lay beneath them was bent out of shape.

There was no doubt Charlie's recovery was going to be long and hard – hard on everyone around and he knew his dad was going to rely on him a great deal.

He had some time coming at the bureau – personal and sick leave. He could move back into the house and help out, like he did when Mom was sick.

Resolute, he stood up and headed for the coffee machine. Even though the thought of another cup of coffee made him gag, he knew he wouldn't be leaving for a while.

~00000~

An hour and a half later, Don sat, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands holding his head. The two men were still there, but everyone else had spent their time in the small room across the hall, then left.

It was quiet. The two men weren't interested in the television and Don couldn't handle another replay of his brother being cut out of what was left of his car, so he had turned it off nearly an hour ago and they had sat in silence.

He snapped his head up at a sound in the doorway, hoping to see Doctor Sorrenson standing there, but it was Karen – the receptionist. She was holding a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, the steam rising from an actual ceramic mug instead of the disposable ones he had been drinking from all day. She smiled at him, tentative and uncertain, then crossed the room and sat down beside him. Quietly, she offered him the coffee.

"No offense," he said, grimacing at the mug, "but I don't think I can stomach another cup of hospital coffee."

She chuckled and gave him a knowing nod, pushing the coffee towards him. "That's why I brought you the good stuff – from the doctor's lounge. They tend to pamper themselves with the finer things in life when possible."

He took the cup from her hands, smelled the dark brew hesitantly, then shrugged and took a sip. His eyebrows rose in surprise and sincere appreciation and she laughed quietly.

They sat in a strained and uncomfortable silence for a few moments as he enjoyed the coffee.

He remembered her expression when he had first asked about Charlie, then again, the puzzling way she acted outside. He fought with his inner agent for a brief moment; it certainly wasn't the right time for an interrogation, but if it had anything to do with what had happened to Charlie, he needed to know.

He turned to her and spoke in a tone laced with accusation, but was, in reality, a simple plea for answers. "You knew I'd still be here. You knew he'd still be in surgery."

"Yes," she answered in a soft voice. "I saw him when they brought him in and I've checked periodically while he's in surgery."

Don's expression asked why, but he was unprepared for her answer.

"My sister and her husband and their three children are visiting me from Ohio. They were all on that bus this morning."

Sobered by the information, Don reached forward and took her hand in both of his. "They said on the news after Charlie … after the bus avoided being trapped between the two trucks that it still hit a guard rail and flipped. Is your family alright?"

Nodding her head, she answered. "They were so lucky. Carol has a broken wrist and one of the girls bumped her head. Slight concussion they say. They're back at my place recuperating. They'll be fine. Your brother . . . "

Don stopped her. "I was shocked when I heard about it," he confessed. He felt he had to say something, that he needed for her to know how extraordinary it was that Charlie had been able to do this. "You have to understand. What he did – I can totally see him making that choice. He has the biggest heart. It's just that Charlie can be … well, distracted sometimes and more often than not, not always aware of things going on around him. I was . . . kind of surprised that he was able to make that split second decision."

"You're very proud of him," she said, simply, squeezing his hand.

He shrugged, but nodded his head.

"I hope I can thank him in person. My whole family does."

"I think he'd like that."

She smiled again, then rose from her chair to leave. He stood up as well. She opened her arms and asked his permission with raised eyebrows. He stepped into her embrace, his arms closing around her shoulders, bringing her close to him. The physical contact, the compassion – it felt good. When she left and he sat down again, he didn't feel quite so alone.

~00000~

Brandon and the older man left nearly forty minutes after Karen did, exiting the small room across the hall with relieved smiles, leaving him the only one in the room. Even though there had been little to no conversation between him and the other people waiting for post surgery information, their presence alone had been comforting in a way he didn't completely understand. Karen's short visit had filled him with both hope and trepidation.

He checked his watch, then sighed heavily. He'd been at the hospital for over ten hours, now, and he was feeling the effects. He felt drained, both physically and emotionally. His head hurt – most certainly from the several gallons of coffee he had consumed. The spider bites continued to torment him, some of the swelling having returned from sitting with his legs down all day. And speaking of sitting all day, his butt hurt.

He knew if he fell asleep there in the chair, whoever came to get him would wake him up, but he didn't want to waste the minute or so it would take him to shake off the cobwebs. If Charlie needed him right away he wanted to be alert.

He couldn't stomach another cup of coffee, but he didn't figure that would be a problem – he had to have enough caffeine in his system to stay awake for a week. He swallowed thickly, thinking the horrific image of his brother being pulled from his car was also a deterrent to sleep. He wondered briefly if he would ever be able to sleep again without seeing it.

He was shocked then, when a few minutes later, he woke up suddenly at the feeling of his head drooping towards his chest. He blinked, trying to refocus and clear his head. He stood up. 'Gotta move a little, he thought. He went to the men's room, got rid of some of the coffee and took a moment to splash cold water in his face, but was afraid to stay too long. They _had _to be coming to get him any minute now, right? He hurried back to the waiting room and changed seats again.

Almost immediately, his eyelids became heavy**.** He jerked himself awake again, rubbing his hand down over his chin. This is ridiculous, he thought. He'd gone a lot longer before with no sleep.

He remembered when he and Billy Cooper were trailing a psychopathic killer across country. They were close – too close to stop for rest. They had nearly lost him in Denver, spent half a day trying to pick up his trail again, then tailed him clear across the state of Kansas, to apprehend him at a trailer park outside of St. Louis where a cousin had given him shelter. By the time they hauled him in and processed him, he and Billy had been going for over 48 hours with no sleep. They checked into the nearest motel and slept 14 hours straight.

Ruefully, Don admitted that was over ten years ago. I guess I'm showing my age, he thought, leaning over to scratch his leg.

No, it wasn't his age, he bristled. It was the fact that back then, he had been active, moving, filled with adrenalin. Today, he was sitting, and the only thing he was filled with was dread – just sitting waiting for someone to come tell him … tell him what, if his brother was going to live?

No, he didn't want to think things like that. But, damn it, he'd been sitting here in the hospital and no one's told him anything, and he was getting tired of just sitting here, helpless and alone.

He rubbed his forehead, weary beyond belief, and he let his head drop to his chest, taking several deep breaths. Maybe he should try to call Coop. Maybe he's hold up in some podunk town, waiting for his target to come home to mama, and he can spare a few minutes to talk. Yeah, Billy always knew how to keep him awake.

His ex-partner's slow, gravelly drawl – the one that could melt a woman's heart or freeze a felon in his tracks – could also be annoying as hell when he would chatter for hours trying to keep them both awake. He'd go on about coon-dog hunting with his father when he was a kid, about his mama's pecan pie, about the bureau's questionable policy of reimbursement on travel expenses, about the possibility of settling down some day or maybe just chasing fugitives until he couldn't run anymore.

"Wake up, Eppes. Moody's close. I can smell him."

Don's head jerked up. Billy Cooper was sitting beside him. When did he get there? Confused, Don looked around the room. It had been empty just minutes ago, but now Malcolm was jumping on the chair across the room, squealing delightedly as the snot ran down over his chin, spewing through the air as he jumped. The wheelchair-bound drama queen was there, too, moaning and pleading for help.

What was going on? He had to be dreaming. No, he thought, rubbing his hands on the arm rests of the chair he was sitting in, these are the same chairs I've been sitting in for hours. The poorly stocked magazine rack was there by the door. The small room where people learned the fate of family members was beckoning to him across the hallway, as it had done since his arrival. Perhaps, more telling, though, was the fact that his leg still itched and his rear end was still sore. He couldn't be dreaming.

The hallway, though, normally quiet and empty, was bustling with people. Doctors and nurses were running helter-skelter past the open doorway, all apparently on missions of mercy.

"Help my mama! Someone help. It's my mama!" The moaning woman's daughter was yelling and somewhere he could here children crying.

It was all surreal. He was more than confused, he was scared. None of this seemed real – and yet … it did.

Don turned to his friend still sitting beside him. Was _he_ real? Don decided it didn't matter. He knew what _was_ real. "_Charlie was hurt."_

"Yeah, the kid really messed up this time, didn't he?" Cooper scoffed.

Don hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, but he must have. He didn't like the derisive sound in Billy's voice, so over the din of Malcolm's squeal and the black woman's screaming, Don answered his former partner. "No," he protested, "He … he did good. He saved all those people on the bus."

Cooper shrugged and gave him look that said, _If that's what you want to believe, partner._

Before he could respond a flurry of movement caught his eye. A team of medical personnel was hurrying down the hall, pushing a hospital bed ahead of them. Doctor Sorrenson was at the head of the bed, bellowing out orders as they ran. _Sorrenson_. In a flash, Don recognized his brother's dark curls splayed across the thin pillow and he jumped to his feet.

"Wait!" Don ran into the hallway and followed the group to the elevator bay. When he caught up to them he was breathless. "How's Charlie? Is he okay?"

Sorrenson remained mute, in fact, he continued to bellow out orders, completely ignoring him. Don growled impatiently and turned his attention to his brother, lying still and unmoving on the the bed.

"Charlie," he called softly, then when his brother's eyes remained closed, "Charlie!"

Charlie's eyes opened and his mouth moved. "Don."

Something was wrong, though. It wasn't Charlie's voice. In fact, it sounded like a woman's.

More confused than ever, Don reached for his brother's hand under the sheet, but stopped at a sudden movement. The sheet was rippling, moving on it's own accord, undulating and waving like it was hanging on a clothes line and blowing in the wind.

Don reached for the corner and pulled it up and away from his brother – then cried out in shock.

Spiders! There were spiders all over Charlie – crawling across his chest and arms and stomach. They were biting him and he looked at Don with pain-filled, frightened eyes, but, once again called out in a woman's voice. "Don."

"Don."

He jerked and opened his eyes. Megan Reeves was standing in front of him, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes searching and worried. "Don. Are you alright?"

Sluggish, he sat up straight in the chair and cleared his throat. He had been right. It took him a minute to shake off both the cobwebs and the dream before he could assure his team mates that he was alright. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," then, puzzled, "How did you find me here?"

"There's only two reasons you would run off like that with Moody within reach," Colby answered, "your dad or Charlie. We knew Alan was in Florida, so after we checked all the outgoing flights there and you weren't on any of the manifests, we knew it had to be Charlie."

"Probability was pretty high," David added, "considering the time frame, that Charlie was in that MVA on the 10 and if he was, this was the nearest hospital. We played the odds and checked here first."

Megan reached into a sack she'd brought in and thrust a sandwich at him. "Nothing but coffee all day, am I right?"

He scowled at her, more than a little irritated that she knew him so well, but took the sandwich from her and opened it up.

"They said at the front desk that Charlie's in surgery. Has he been in surgery this whole time?"

He nodded, grimly, swallowing the small bite of the turkey and Swiss sandwich she'd brought. He saw the look that passed between the three of them and his stomach clenched. He instantly regretted even that small bite.

"How badly was he hurt?"

Ignoring Megan's frown, Don wrapped the remainder of the sandwich back up and laid it on the chair next to him. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "He was already prepped for surgery when I got here and the doctor didn't give me any details. I think he's hurt pretty bad, though. I saw the news report. I guess he braked to let a tour bus through before being crushed between two trucks."

Megan literally fell into the seat beside him, her eyes wide and alarmed. "_That_ was Charlie!?"

Colby stepped forward. "Moody was stuck in traffic like eight miles behind the impact scene. We never got close to it, but everyone was talking about the guy who did that. We didn't know it was … . Damn, I can't believe . . ."

"Does Alan know?" David asked, quietly.

"Yeah, he actually saw a news report about the pile up and you guys nailing Moody. Great job, by the way." Don gave David a short nod of approval, then glanced at his watch. "Dad's on his way back, but it's gonna be a few hours yet."

"I know I'm probably talking to the wall here," Megan said, "but you look like shit Don. Why don't you let Colby take you home and David and I will stay here. We'll let you know the minute . . ." She stopped, seeing her boss shake his head vigorously.

"No way. Not until I know how Charlie is."

She nodded, quietly, expecting his reaction.

They sat in silence for a while, then David's phone rang and he reached into his suit jacket for it. After a brief conversation he closed it and sighed heavily as he slid it back in place. "We got a break in the bank robbery. Some of the money's turned up in Encino in an high stakes underground poker game. Gotta go."

"Yeah, sure." As much as he hated seeing them leave, Don knew the procedure and nodded his head. "Go on. Check it out."

"We'll call when we get back," Megan promised, hesitating at the door to look once more at him. He saw the worry in her eyes, but she smiled, trying to be positive. "Give Charlie our best when you see him."

They were gone then, and he was once again alone. Afraid of falling asleep and having another dream like the last one, he stood up and paced quickly around the small room. Once again the sudden activity, after sitting for so long, caused the blood to pump through his body and his leg erupted into spasms of irritating sensations. He walked down the hall to the men's room. Pulling a paper towel from the container on the wall he soaked it with cold water, then propped his leg up, resting his foot against the porcelain sink. He pulled his pants leg up and wrapped the cold, wet towel around his calf. The cold compress reduced the itchy sensation almost immediately. It felt good on his over-heated skin. He leaned over the sink to refresh the towel and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Megan had been right. He looked like hell. Dark half moon circles under his eyes made them look sunken and tired – just like he felt, he thought. If he didn't get some rest soon, he wouldn't be any good at all to Charlie.

He threw the wet towel in the trash, answered the need to get rid of some more coffee, washed his hands and headed back to the waiting room.

Nearly an hour later, he sat, morose and numb, still alone in the small, quiet room. The agonizing number of hours he had spent waiting had stripped him of any residual energy he had left and he slouched in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was absently rolling Charlie's chalk in his hands, the tip of his fingers brushing over the ends, dislodging a fine layer of white dust into his palm as he twisted it.

A slight noise at the door startled him and he looked up to see Dr. Sorrenson and another man standing there, looking at him. He laid the chalk down and shot to his feet as the two men walked in.

Sorrenson spoke first, his voice laced with fatigue, but once again his attitude was arrogant and imperious. "Let's sit down, Agent Eppes."

It wasn't a suggestion, more of an order and Don, tired and irritable and terrified of what the doctor was going to tell him, grabbed hold of the only control he had. "I've been sitting for over 10 hours now, I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Sorrenson muttered, shrugging as he sat down. The other man, dressed in scrubs, as well, joined him.

With no apparent compassion for how his words would affect him, the doctor looked up at Don and said, "The medics who brought your brother in said his car had been crushed between two trucks. I assume you are aware of that."

The images of Charlie being cut out of his car once again assailed him and he felt as though a fist full of stones had settled in his stomach. "I am," he said simply, his jaw tight.

"Then you're also aware that his injuries are grave and numerous."

Don swallowed and abruptly sat down beside the doctor. "Will he be alright?"

"We've set his broken bones and stopped the bleeding. That's all we can do."

Don waited, sure there would be more, but Sorrenson didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

Aghast, Don blurted out, "That's it? That's all you're going to say? What about his injuries?"

"Excuse me gentlemen," the other man finally spoke up, "maybe I can expedite this. I'm Doctor Whitten, the resident orthopedic surgeon. May I apologize for my college. He's a brilliant surgeon but I'm afraid a great deal of ego and very little social skills goes with the genius."

Don blanched. He understood that all too well.

"As Doctor Sorrenson said – with perhaps more reticence than was necessary - your brother was very seriously injured and it took a team of several surgeons to repair the damage. Are you the only family member here?

"Dad was in Florida. He'll be here soon."

"That might be a better time to go into details. Dr. Lakhia, the neurosurgeon who worked on your brother, will be available then, but, I think we can all use a bit of a break right now. Your brother's still in recovery and it will be some time before he'll be moved to ICU. For the time being he is listed in critical condition, but that may change to serious later tonight. For now, Doctor Sorrenson may be right. We've done all we can at the moment. I'll leave word with the ICU nurse to notify me when your father arrives. We'll meet again at that time if that is alright with you, Philip?

Dr. Sorrenson nodded, absently, as if it were nothing to him, and Dr. Whitten walked away.

Don glanced furtively at the doctor still sitting beside him.

Dr. Whitten's description of Sorrenson as a medical genius with diminished social skills had obviously made him think of Charlie. One could certainly compare the characteristics, but the comparison stopped there as far as Don was concerned.

"I'm sorry if you felt my explanation of your brother's condition was inadequate." Sorrenson seemed genuinely puzzled. "I'm a doctor, not a therapist. I'm here to alleviate pain – that's my job."

Don stood up, no longer angry, but repulsed by the man and his attitude. "Yeah, well, let me tell you something, pal. You'd better check your definition of pain. It's not restricted to just the people who are hurt, you know. When a person's in pain, so is everyone who loves him."

Don walked away with a small sense of satisfaction at the open mouthed expression on the doctor's face. He was halfway down the hall, close to the nurse's station when he heard Sorrenson's voice.

"Agent Eppes."

Don stopped and turned around. Dr. Sorrenson walked up to him and held out his hand, palm up. Charlie's chalk lay in the center. He'd forgotten it on the table.

Don was baffled. He just couldn't read this man. The doctor was enigmatic, a mystery, never more so than when he handed Don the chalk, looking at him with something resembling both compassion and indifference in his eyes and said, "Your brother's recovery will be long, arduous, and I suspect at times tortuous for all of you, but, I am also certain he _will_ recover. He fought like hell in there. He seems to be very stubborn. Must be a family trait."

~ 00000 ~

It was another hour and a half before the nurse came to get Don to take him to ICU.

The waiting was different this time. Although he still didn't know the extent of his brother's injuries, the fact that Dr. Sorrenson said he would recover eased the knots from his stomach. Dr. Whitten had said Charlie was in very serious, perhaps critical condition, but, for some inexplicable reason, Don clung to Sorrenson's declaration that his brother was stubborn enough to survive. Maybe, he thought, it was also the fact that Sorrenson was arrogant and pompous enough that he simply wouldn't tolerate anything less. It didn't matter. Charlie would recover.

He spent the time waiting for the nurse making plans for Charlie's recovery. Both David and Megan were capable of running the team in his absence, but he figured the bureau would put in a temporary replacement anyway. The team would be fine. Maybe he could sublet his apartment for six months or so. Charlie would no doubt would have to spend some time in a rehabilitation center when he was discharged from the hospital and if he were living at the Craftsman again, he would be there to help Alan get back and forth for visits. He was wondering if Charlie would need a special diet when a tall, red-haired nurse appeared in front of him.

"Your brother is settled now. Come with me."

He followed her through a doorway that led to a large nurses station, which was located in the center of the intensive care unit. Patient rooms angled away from the station like spokes on a large wheel. The beds in the rooms were fully visible from any point in the station through glass walls.

Don searched each room quickly as they walked by, searching for his brother, but was unable to see him. He was puzzled then when she opened the door to a room he had already looked in. This couldn't be right, he thought.

The room, like all the others, was just large enough to accommodate a bed and the various machines and IV poles, allowing room for medical personnel with scant room for visitors. He scanned the small area, used to visually appraising a room upon entering it. Like flashes of a dream sequence or a hyper slide show, the images rushed through his mind; the unmoving and disturbingly familiar patient, the monitors, the multiple IV stands with tubes disappearing into small patches of exposed chalky-white skin, the angled arm brace that enclosed most of his left arm, the catheter hanging close to the floor off the bed railing and the dark, bloody liquid it held, some kind of tortuous contraption that encircled the head and neck that appeared to actually be screwed into place at the temples, the bulky sheets covering limbs that were too big to be just legs, and finally, the yards of white bandages that were wrapped completely around the patient's head, covering every strand of hair and leaving only his face untouched. A face that was bloated and colored and distorted. The entire area below the right eye socket and continuing down to the jawline was swollen and bruised rendering the face nearly unrecognizable. But, Don knew that face like his own.

It was Charlie.

He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and walked to the bed with cautious automatic movements, afraid to approach too quickly, yet needing, after all this time, to see his brother as quickly as possible.

The first thing he noticed was the respirator tube that was inserted in his brother's mouth and taped to the outer side of the lip. The doctor, of course, hadn't said anything about lung injuries, but he knew sometimes a severely injured person needs help breathing.

Something began beeping loudly and he looked up at the monitors. The nurse adjusted one of the dials while he studied them. He didn't have medical training but it looked to him like the blood pressure was way too low and the heart rate was way too fast. The temperature was elevated, too, not dangerously so, but enough that Mom would have been handing out the Tylenol and insisting on bed rest.

He had expected the tubes and IVs; anyone crushed between two trucks and in surgery for so long would need blood and antibiotics and any number of medications – especially morphine or something like it.

He had also expected his brother's skin to be pale and translucent. Blood loss would do that.

What he hadn't expected was how small his brother looked in the bed – sunken, frail, insignificant – and by God, Don thought, if there was anything Charlie Eppes wasn't, it was insignificant.

It was the room itself that hit him harder than anything else. He still remembered (always would) the room his mother had been in when she died and this one had the same feeling. It unsettled him nearly as much as the sight of his brother lying there in bed, broken and bloody. It had the same smells, the same sense of heaviness and expectancy, the same suffocating and distressing sensation of being in a room with someone in such dire condition.

The nurse went about her business then left. He stood beside the bed for a minute then looked around for a chair. He knew ICU only allowed visitors for just a few minutes every hour, so there wasn't a chair available. There was a small stool in the corner, but he could only imagine how his backside would hurt sitting on that for even a minute or two, so he remained standing. After sitting all day, it actually felt good.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching the monitors, listening to the raspy sound of the ventilator pumping air into his brother's lungs, watching his chest rise and fall with each rotation. It didn't matter. Time didn't matter now. He was with Charlie and everything would be alright. He would stay here beside his brother until they told him to leave, then after the meeting with Dad and the doctors, he'd go home and get some rest. Tomorrow they could take turns sitting with Charlie, waiting for their allotted time in the ICU. They would both have to conserve their energy in order to give Charlie the support and help he would be needing.

The nurse came back in, holding a IV bag. She removed the empty one that hung on the pole next the bed and replaced it with the new one. She adjusted the drip, checked the point where the needle entered the back of Charlie's hand then left with a small smile of encouragement.

Don continued to stand, his hands on the side railings, watching his brother's face, serene, pale and slack under the soft lighting. There was a small area above his right eye that was slowly bleeding, staining the stark white wrapping that encircled his head. Don couldn't stop staring at it. It was crazy, he thought, to be obsessed with that small amount of blood, considering the large amount his brother had already lost, but, still it troubled him.

He was so engrossed in the disturbing crimson area that he jumped when the small sound came from the bed. He held his breath, searching Charlie's face for any sign that it had come from him. Nothing. He sighed, thinking he had imagined it, then suddenly his brother's eyes fluttered once and opened.

Charlie's eyes, always bright and expressive, were dull with drugs and most likely pain, but Don immediately saw something else; bewilderment. It was obvious Charlie had no idea where he was or what had happened.

Don knew a person with head trauma doesn't always remember the few moments just before they are injured and it's possible Charlie doesn't even recall the accident or why he is in the hospital. He's probably very scared and confused.

He leaned over, placing himself directly in front of his brother's vision and spoke. "Hey, Buddy. You're fine. It's alright." He was surprised to hear his own voice was barely above a whisper – perhaps owing to the grim atmosphere in the room, and he wasn't sure if his brother heard him.

The dark eyes tracked him, though, moving immeasurably slow, until they met his. Don held his breath for the few seconds it took Charlie to focus. His brother blinked several times, then suddenly Don saw the flash of recognition and Charlie's eyes opened a little wider.

The muscles in Charlie's throat moved and constricted around the tube as he tried desperately to talk. Don had heard that sometimes a person waking up with a ventilator in their throat would panic at the discomfort and inability to speak, and at first he thought that was what was happening. As Charlie continued to try to talk, though, Don realized his brother was not just randomly fighting the tube – that he was trying to say something specific. He leaned in closer, studying Charlie's face and trying to understand what his brother wanted.

A single vowel sound, forced from the swollen throat in a weak, desperate breath, gave Don the answer.

Charlie never liked being alone when he was sick. It was another aspect of their opposite personalities; when Don was sick he just wanted to be left alone – Charlie had always been needy. When Charlie was a small boy and would be in bed with a virus their mother would often ask Don to sit and read to him. He recalled how his little brother would snuggle into the covers and relax when Don would begin reading – most of the time from Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; a mathematician's fairy tale, Charlie called it.

"A," Charlie said again, unable to enunciate the entire word around the intrusive tube in his mouth, but Don knew immediately what his brother meant.

He splayed his hand across Charlie's chest – the only place he could find that didn't have a cast or bandages on it – and rubbed small calming circles on it. "No. No." he soothed. "Don't try to talk. You don't have to say anything, Charlie. I know. I know what you need and I'm here. It's going to be alright."

The familiar eyes looked back at him – not clouded with fever as they were when he was young, but fearful and beseeching; a man, confused and in pain, asking his brother to stay with him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Charlie," Don tried to assure him. "I'll be right here with you. You hear me, buddy? I'm staying right here."

At first, there was nothing, then Charlie blinked and when he opened his eyes again they were less frantic, less tense. Don watched, amazed, as his brother seemed to relax. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor stuttered and slowed to a more normal tempo. The tight pinch of pain softened around his brother's eyes and the lines of distress across his face disappeared.

Without a second thought, Don pulled the hard, unforgiving stool over close to the bed and sat down on it. He reached for the hand resting on the white sheets in front of him. A hard cast enclosed all of Charlie's arm and most of his hand, leaving several inches of his fingers still visible and Don gently touched them. They were cold. Instinctively, he gathered his brother's hand in both of his, cocooning the frigid finger tips in the warmth of his own hands.

"I'll stay, Charlie. I'll stay; as long as you need me. No matter how long."

**The end**

**Thank you for reading my story. If you made it all the way through I applaud your tenacity.**

**For those readers who are not happy with the way I ended this story and wanted more scenes with Charlie recovering, please note that the title is "The Endless Vigil". The story is not about Charlie and his injuries, it's about Don's agonizing wait during Charlie's surgery. In fact, for a while the working title was jokingly called Don's Adventures in Emergency Room Land. I wanted to explore the scene in so many of the wonderful Charlie whumping stories where Don or Don and Alan wait for hours at the hospital to find out how badly Charlie was hurt after being shot, stabbed, electrocuted, tortured, etc. There's a lot of drama going on in hospital waiting rooms and I wanted to tap into that with more than a few paragraphs.**

**Nothing fuels a writer's creativity more than real life and this story is no exception. I had the initial idea rolling around in my head for quite a while, then, one day, as I sat with my husband in the emergency room, hoping to see a doctor about a mysterious rash that was driving him crazy itching, we were disgusted by the actions of an overweight, overly dramatic woman in a wheelchair, and Eureka! Yes, it really happened!**

**Once again, thank you for your continued support of my Numb3rs stories. Let's keep the fandom alive.**


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